


run you down, down 'til you fall

by elizaham8957



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, F/M, Stiles and Lydia deserve a BREAK OKAY JEFF do you hear me, anyways this is... darker than my usual writing, back when this show was still good, but it's still me so... hello domesticity, idk guys i wrote this in line for security at the airport, post 6b, references to 3b, you have put these kids through enough
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-05
Updated: 2017-10-05
Packaged: 2019-01-09 04:46:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12269190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizaham8957/pseuds/elizaham8957
Summary: Sleeping never comes easy to him anymore.Luckily, he has Lydia to fall back on.





	run you down, down 'til you fall

**Author's Note:**

> HI, FRIENDS. Well, I am currently sitting in the airport, posting this on MOBILE, because I love y'all and I want to give you something before I disappear to London for the weekend. I put the italics in by HAND, okay? And there are a lot of italics in this. I hope no one ever doubts how much I love this show again. 
> 
> Anyways, this was written for a prompt on tumblr. I hope you enjoy this and that it's worth the weird looks the TSA agents were giving me as I waited to go through security. If you want to come talk about Stydia ever, I'm stilesssolo on Tumblr and Twitter!

There’s blood everywhere.

  
_Everywhere._ Painting his skin red, soaking his fingers in scarlet. Dripping down the hilt of the blade, running onto the floor, spreading slowly until the whole world is dark with it, seeping into the cracks of the tiles, staining the floor, flowing heavy and with no end…

  
It makes him _happy,_ the sight of all that blood. Something, dimly, in the back of his brain registers that this is wrong, that he shouldn’t take so much pleasure from all this pain, but it’s like some sick, addictive drug to him, the delight of causing this much strife and chaos just making him want _more. More, more, more._

  
It’s wrong, Stiles knows, but all he wants is _more._

  
With sick delight, he looks at the face of his best friend, contorted in pain, still shell shocked from the firm grip Stiles has on the blade through his torso. “Oh, you really have to learn, Scott,” he says, grinning sadistically, drinking in the fear in the other boy’s eyes. “You really have to learn not to trust a fox.” Slowly, he twists the blade, and Scott cries out as more blood runs down the hilt, his shirt dark and wet with it, dripping onto the tile floor of the deserted animal clinic. He laughs, waving his finger at Scott, grinning in delight at the horrified look on his face. “Mm-mh. No, ‘cause they’re tricksters,” he tells him, gripping his shoulder again, pushing the blade in deeper, drinking in the shudder of pain that runs through Scott’s body, reveling in the feeling of the slick, warm blood on his fingers. “They’ll fool you.” His expression turns serious as he looks right into Scott’s eyes, and Scott’s expression can only be described as _terrified._

  
Stiles _loves_ it.

  
“They’ll fool everyone,” he tells his friend, gripping the blade harder, but before he can do anything, he’s falling, falling into darkness, and Scott is gone, the animal clinic is gone, all the blood… gone, gone, _gone,_ engulfed by endless, endless black. _Stiles,_ he hears briefly, but he’s not sure who said it, their voice murky and indistinguishable. All he can see is _darkness,_ spanning forever, keeping him trapped.

  
_WAKE UP,_ someone screams, and he jolts up in bed, his heart racing, mouth dry.

  
His vision is still hazy, mind still stuck in his dream, and he can see his hands are clean, but he swears he can still feel the slick blood of his best friend running in between his fingers.

  
“Stiles,” someone says again, urgently, but this time, he can tell who it is.

  
Lydia sits up next to him, blinking sleepily, her loose gray top falling off her shoulder. “You okay?” she asks, and her voice is full of sleep, but she can’t hide the worry in it.

  
“Yeah,” he says, automatically, because that’s his reaction to dealing with stuff like this. “I just had a dream,” he tells her truthfully. “It was weird. God, it felt so real,” he mumbles, glancing down at his hands, still expecting them to be stained red with Scott’s blood.

  
“Like a nightmare?” she asks hesitantly, smoothing her hand over his bicep, and Stiles _freezes._

  
This has happened before, he realizes. His vision goes a little fuzzy, his breath shortening, as the most awful feeling of déjà vu washes over him. He remembers this happening, right at the beginning of it all. He’d woken up, and Lydia was _here,_ and then he’d woken up again, and again, never able to tell when he was _actually_ sleeping, caught in an endless cycle of nightmare after nightmare.

  
“This isn’t real,” he mutters, his heart speeding up again. Lydia’s hand tenses on his arm, the other one reaching for the hand he has resting on his knee, intertwining their fingers.

  
“What are you talking about, Stiles?” she asks, voice panicked. “This is real. You’re right here with me, okay?”

  
“No,” he gasps, sitting up straighter, tearing his hand from hers. “No, no, no, this is all a dream.” His heart is frantic, breathing short, and he feels almost like he’s having a panic attack. It’s been years since they defeated the nogitsune— or they thought, anyways. Void is still here, lurking, and they’re never going to be able to get rid of him— _You can’t kill me; I’m a thousand years old,_ his brain screams, and Stiles’s vision is tunneling, the edges of the dark room going black— he’s still possessed, and the nogitsune still has him, and he’s never going to escape; he can see Scott’s blood again, pouring out on the floor as he twists the sword inside of him, sees Lydia trapped behind bars in the tunnels of Eichen House, and Allison, oh god, Allison— bleeding out on the concrete, breath feeble as the life drains out of her, as she slips through Scott’s arms and dissolves into nothing because she’s _dead,_ they’re all _dead_ and it’s _his fault—_

  
“Stiles,” he hears, and he doesn't know _how_ exactly it happens, but Lydia is in his lap, hands firm on either side of his face. Her voice isn’t sleepy anymore; instead, it’s certain and sure, and when she speaks again, he can hear the desperation in her voice.

  
“Look at me,” she demands, stroking his cheekbones with her thumbs subconsciously. “Stiles, look at me, please.”

  
He obeys, because if there’s one thing he’s never been able to deny, it’s Lydia Martin. He meets her gaze, and his vision seems to clear a little, looking into her green eyes, overflowing with concern and worry and _love._ So much love. She’s looking at him like he’s the only thing that matters to her, the only thing in the universe, and it snaps him back to reality, a little.

  
But not enough.

  
“It’s my fault,” he says, voice breaking, and Lydia’s brow furrows. “Allison, Aiden, everyone— I couldn’t stop him, Lydia,” he tells her. “I still can’t stop him. He’s out there, I know, and I—”

  
“Hey,” she says, cutting him off, her voice certain. “Listen to me, Stiles. The nogitsune is gone, okay? We defeated it. It can’t hurt you anymore.”

  
“No, no,” he insists, voice still panicky, glancing away from her. In the corner of the room, he swears he sees it— leather jacket, bandages, sharp teeth, that stilted walk— the nogitsune is hiding here, waiting for him. “It’s a trick, Lydia. You’re just— you’re just saying that, so I—”

  
_You really have to learn not to trust a fox. Because they’ll trick you._

  
“It’s not real,” he gasps, heart hammering. “It’s a trick. It’s not real—”

  
_“Stiles,”_ she says again, voice determined. “Look at me, right now.”

He obeys, glancing back up at her, and she looks blurrier, like reality is fading away. “Count your fingers,” she demands, moving her hands from the side of his face, grasping his shaking hands. “Look, Stiles. Count with me.”

Shaking, he looks down, Lydia’s smaller hands grasping his. She holds his hand towards him like an offering, her fingers tracing over each of his. “One,” she says, meeting his eyes again, forehead hovering next to his. “Two. Count, Stiles.”

  
“Three,” he gasps, his body trembling. “Four. Five.” Lydia pushes his hand down, offering him the other.

  
“Six,” she says in sync with him, and his breath begins to steady, ever so slightly. “Seven. Eight. Nine.” His body shudders as she strokes his thumb, her fingers so small next to his hands.

  
“Ten,” she says, voice soft, looking up at him with concern in her green eyes. “Ten, Stiles. You’re not dreaming. You’re here with me, and you’re awake.” She offers him her hands, and his eyes dart over them, counting her fingers quickly, his breath evening out with every additional number.

  
His eyes freeze on _nine,_ staring at the diamond ring on her left ring finger.

  
“Hey,” he says, slowly, and his vision is clearing a little bit, looking at the silvery band. She smiles at him, eyes soft, as she lifts her hands again, resting them on either side of his face.

  
“Yeah,” she says, her brow knit in concern. “You gave me that.” She presses her lips together in that smile that’s so adorably _Lydia._ “Do you remember?”

  
Stiles exhales shakily as the last remnants of the nightmare slip away, and the room comes more into focus. He’s not in his bedroom in Beacon Hills, like in that old nightmare— he’s in their apartment in San Francisco, in the bed that he and Lydia share. He can see his work clothes for the next morning hanging on the closet door, and he sees Lydia’s perfume on top of their dresser, a stack of notes for her research paper balanced precariously next to her cosmetics. There’s a ball of red string on the table next to their bed, and a flannel strewn across the chair in the corner, Lydia’s favorite Coach booties resting on the floor next to it. This room is _theirs,_ it is so clear. His heartbeat slows, Lydia’s thumbs still tracing patterns on his cheekbones, her rhythmic breathing helping him slow his own.

  
“Yeah,” he says, nodding slowly. “I— I’m sorry. God, I don’t know what happened.”

  
She shakes her head vehemently, but her expression is still soft. “Don’t apologize,” she insists, hands still warm on his face. “You don’t have to feel sorry, Stiles.”

  
“I know,” he says, and with anyone else— maybe except Scott— he would be embarrassed of what had happened, ashamed that here, years later, after the supernatural portion of their lives has _finally_ calmed down, he still is struck with visions so terrifying and debilitating that they convince him that the world around him isn’t real. But this is _Lydia._ They have seen each other at their absolute bests and worsts, and he knows that he doesn’t have to hide anything from her, because regardless, she will still be here and she will still love him.

  
“Thank you,” he offers her, and her expression grows softer, her eyes shining in the moonlight, and he can pick flecks of pure gold out of the green as she blinks at him, a little smile tugging at her lips.

  
“Of course,” she answers, leaning in and kissing him slowly, languidly. Her lips linger on his, and when she finally pulls away, she takes the last of the shaky feeling of his nightmare with him.

  
“Can you sleep again?” she asks, one hand resting over his heart, her palm warm through his t-shirt.

  
He nods his head slightly, glancing over at the corner of the room. The nogitsune is gone, no longer lurking behind the armchair where his and Lydia’s clothes are tossed. A figment of his imagination, a shadow of the horrific nightmare he’d had. But Lydia is here, and she’s real, and she’s with him, and he’s beginning to remember what reality feels like again.

  
“Come here,” Lydia says, carding her fingers through his hair, gently pulling him back down on the mattress next to her. She guides his head onto her chest, his ear resting right on her sternum, and the steady beating of her heart keeps him grounded to reality.

  
When he falls asleep again, Lydia still with her arms around him, his nightmares don’t return.


End file.
